A Beer, A Gun and A Phone
by Sleepisagreatfantasticthing
Summary: Dean hits an all time low after Sam leaves for Stanford. *Rated M for course language.*
1. Just A Poor, Wayfaring Stranger

_Sam was…_

_Gone._

_Gone. Never coming back. Run off to have a "normal life" whatever the fuck that means._

_The three Winchesters. Never to part._

Dean snorted.

_Well fuck him. He can go have his __two and a half kids__, a dog, and his white __picket fence__. He can have his happily ever after._

Dean took another swig of his beer and chuckled darkly. How Sam thought leaving Dean out of his life equalled a happy fucking ending is beyond him.

He wished he could go back to simpler times, before Sam and Dad started arguing, before Sam began coveting 'Normal', putting it on a pedestal higher than his family could ever hope to reach.

All that shit Sam spewed, how he's 'daddy's little soldier', cold, emotionless and self serving. Does he not realise what he's done for him? All the sacrifices he's made, the peoples he's left behind, crying himself to sleep, aching from the men he serviced to keep Sam's hunger sated, his own hunger pains overwhelming. The only thing keeping him going the thought that Sam was okay.

That's the only thing that had ever kept him going.

Sammy is okay.

Ever since that fateful night, what seems like an eon ago, where his Dad had put Sammy in his arms and said those words.

_Take care of Samm_y.

That became his mantra. Through all the pain, all the hurtful words, all the looks of disappointment (_because he's not good enough, would **never** be good enough). _He would go to hell for the kid_._

Seems Dad gave him Sammy and never took him back.

Well it's been over a year since he last heard a fucking word from him. _Good fucking job Dean. The only reason you're alive, your only purpose and you fucked it up._

Dean turned the gun over in his hand. Inspecting it. Weighing his options. Considering.

_No-one would care. Dad started sending him on ''lone hunts'' about 7 months ago. _

_Lone hunts my ass. He can't stand me, useless piece of shit that I am. Only good as Sam's babysitter._

Dean looked around at the forgotten alleyway, unsure how he got there. Not caring at all.

He had tried to call. Let it ring out until it hit voicemail. Hearing Sam's voice again, it was a punch to the gut. Memories came flashing back, the Fourth of July, carving their names into the Impala, Sam being the first to wish him a happy birthday when no one else had. The little things missed the most, who would've guessed. That was the last time he tried to contact him.

Dean turned the gun over in his hands, beer long ago finished and forgotten. _Just like me_, he thought bitterly.

_They were both finished with me and they forgot me and left me alone._

Dean found himself slumped with his back against the wall, staring at the gun pensively. Suicide was for sissies. The people who were too weak to go on. _This isn't suicide_, he convinced himself raising the gun to his temple, the cool metal soothing him. _I'm just ending the pain. I have no more purpose. I'm just taking out the trash. The useless, unwanted, poisonous trash that only gets people killed. So poisonous that everyone ran away as soon as they could. _

The worst part is he knew. Before Sam started the fucking fight that started this whole thing. He had seen the acceptance letters, "hidden" in Sam's duffel.

He should've said something. Anything. If he approached Sam about it maybe he wouldn't have felt the need to cut him out from his life. But he understood that Sam needed to do this. Without him. The only thing Dean had done is send him an unmarked letter with all of his savings and no return address. Sam didn't need him there to remind him of everything he had tried so hard to escape.

A soft vibration coming from his pocket drew him out from his thoughts. Letting the gun fall slack in his hand, he checked to see who it was.

Sam.

It was Sam.

'Happy Birthday.'

It was midnight on January 24th and Sam was still the first to wish him a Happy Birthday.

Dean let out a watery chuckle, gun forgotten as it falls to the floor. He wanted to call. But Sam needs to do this alone.

Sam, safe and asleep at Stanford, guilt assuaged over ignoring Dean, still has no idea how close Dean came. How close he was to losing his brother.

**AN: First ever fanfiction. Finally I have gone full circle. I couldn't stand for it to be a death fic so this happened. Like it? Hate it? REVIEEEWWWWW. I may continue. We shall see.**

**Thanks to fallingangelsandstars for being a cool dude.**


	2. Travelling through his World of Woe

Sam was

Here?

Sitting next to him in the Impala.

Everything Dean had craved for the last 4 years.

But it wasn't worth it. Dean isn't worth it.

Sammy's hopes and dreams, aspirations of becoming a lawyer and settling down and having kids and not hunting all gone. Taken away in a moment of desperation and loneliness and the overwhelming need to have Sam there.

They were gone. Gone because Dean was feeling lonely.

Sure, he could've hunted Dad down himself. But he was getting into that dark place he had been in a few years ago, drifting into that overwhelming pit of despair and depression that had hollowed him out, left him empty, a shell, and that was the last thing he wanted.

He doesn't deserve to have his life taken that easily.

Sam's silence and the look of shadowed grief on his face makes Dean feel like he's losing something, an essential part of Sam that's leaking away with every passing second.

All he wanted, all he's ever wanted was for Sam to be happy.

Now Jess is dead and Dad is missing and Sam is sitting next to him in the Impala, staring out the window, looking at anything but Dean.

Sam hasn't said much.

"We've got work to do."

No chick flick moments. Dean avoided his feelings so much it was second nature.

Ignore the question, smile charmingly, and talk over them until they got the hint and shut the fuck up.

They needed to talk about this.

As much as he wanted to ignore it, he knew it wasn't going away.

Sam hadn't slept, hadn't eaten, hadn't really done anything since that night. His eyes were bloodshot, cheekbones painfully prominent.

This could've been avoided. Decisions made, then regretted, seeping through, tainting everything they'd worked so hard to achieve.

If Dean wasn't such a selfish son of a bitch then Sam would be happy.

In those years away he had moved from denial to anger. From depression to acceptance.

He had accepted that Sam was lost to him.

Now that Sam was here it was worse.

He was alone and already grieved Sam. Had already known that Sam would never choose him over a normal future.

Now he's there again and it's a slap to the face. Despite everything, Dean knows nothing has changed.

He still hates me, doesn't want to talk to me, still cutting me out of his life.

Dean tries to pretend it doesn't hurt.

It does.

It's all his fault.

Then again, when hasn't it been?

Ever since the fire all John taught him was that it was his fault Mary was gone, and he would never replace her.

Lessons beaten into him by a drunken John Winchester are not ones he will forget.

Because John was right.

If Dean wasn't such a fuck-up then none of this would've happened.

It's his fault John hit him, his fault that Sammy left, his fault Jess was dead, his fault that all of this happened.

If Dean didn't exist everyone would be better off. He knew that.

Now Sam is wallowing in desolation at everything that his life had consisted of being taken away. Whatever tenuous grasp he'd had on normalcy had slipped through his fingertips, and now he was stuck back in the place he'd tried so hard to escape.

Dean pretends not to be hurt by that. That despite practically raising the kid, Sam still thinks him a part of a life that he wants nothing to do with. But that's okay too. Sam can get out now. Dean's the last link, finally being extinguished.

Sam would be okay. He would get over it. One day. Hopefully.

Dean can't forgive himself period.

But the least he can do is what he's always done.

Lessen the suffering of his baby brother.

**AN: WELL THEN. PEOPLE ACTUALLY RESPONDED TO THE FIC. WOAH. THANKS TO fallingangelsandstars I LOVE YOU**

**LOVE IT? HATE IT? REVIEEEWWWWWWWWWO**


	3. And There Is No Sickness, Toil Or Danger

Dean was drunk.

It was November 2nd and Dean was fucking _smashed._

Sam was a horrible mix of worried and confused, leaving him with a knot of anxiety in his stomach and a bitter taste in the back of his mouth.

Dean usually wasn't an aggressive drunk. It might be better if he was.

Instead he was painfully honest, every inhibition and wall crumbling, truth spilling from slurred words and shaking hands.

Sam had had enough. He had enough of watching his brother destroying himself while he watched silently. He needed to do something.

He went to move Dean from the chair, where he was sitting with a pensive look on his face, staring at nothing.

"I wish I'd pulled the damn trigger."

Sam flinched, anxiety seeping into him, slow and inexorable, fear running a cold chill down his spine.

"What?" His voice was almost a whisper, and he wished he'd been able to muster something stronger, something solid.

Dean continued to ramble to himself, ignoring Sam completely.

"I mean, it would've been so much better. Then Dad wouldn't be disgusted by the mere sight of me and Jess wouldn't be dead and Sam never would've left Stanford and he would be happy, away from the life and away from me.

Sam was horrified.

_God, Dean, did you? Did you try to..._ He quickly shut off that train of thought. It wasn't something he wanted to dwell on, not now, not ever, but what if he had-

"It was so fucking selfish of me," Dean continued, and Sam wanted to stop him, rouse him from his stupor and stop him from continuing.

"Why didn't I just finish the job? I mean, really? Would anyone have mourned me?"

_I would've,_ Sam thinks violently, eyes burning, tears threatening to spill.

"People don't mourn the useless members of society, the scum of the earth. They probably would've celebrated, if anything." Dean's voice cracks, and he takes another long swallow, eyes closed, jaw set into a grim, determined line.

"I would've done it too, if not for Sam. I want to resent him for saving my life but I can't."

_Ican'tIcan'tIcan'tIcan'tIcan'tIcan'tIcan'tIcan'tIcan'tIcan't. Do you know that, Sam? I can't hate you for anything. _

Sam's heart was breaking but Dean wasn't finished.

"And that's the problem, isn't it? I can't think for myself. I can't handle being alone." He trailed off, eyes unfocused, gazing blankly at the wall.

"All Sam sees me as is Daddy's perfect little soldier, who does nothing but take orders and tries to please him. If only he knew what I'd done for him."

_NonononoNO._ Sam didn't want to hear this.

"Dad didn't exactly plan ahead and I had to feed him somehow. Anything to make a quick buck. If I'm not pleasing somebody then there's no reason for my life."

_And the worst part about being there for everybody is that no one is there for you. Do you see that too, Sam?_

"I reckon if Sam knew about how close I came to ending it he would regret sending that message." The bottle was placed back down on the table, but Dean's fingers clenched around the neck tightly, knuckles whitening.

"I'm so tired. So fucking tired. And I'm not going to remember saying this tomorrow."

And with those words Dean fell silent, staring back into the distance.

Sam was _scaredhorrifiedworriedanxiousguilty_ roiling in the pit of his stomach and it made him want to throw up.

He couldn't believe it.

Refused to believe it.

Was that really his brother?

The same Dean who beat up bullies for him, stood up for him and made sure he never went hungry.

Was he actually planning to just…

Just…

He couldn't even think it, so repulsive was the thought.

He searched back desperately in his mind for anything he had texted his brother when he was at Stanford.

The only one he sent was the "Happy Birthday," when he remembered absentmindedly that it was Dean's birthday.

No.

He'd saved Dean, but this, in all its entirety, was his fault.

How could he let his big brother feel so alone, so hated, so isolated that he thought no one would miss him?

_How could Dad leave you alone, Dean? How could he not see what was happening to you? _

_You didn't either, _a voice whispers in the back of his head, and Sam turns away, swallowing roughly past the lump in his throat.

Just the thought of enjoying college while Dean was about to take his own life makes him feel incredibly guilty, a ton of bricks crashing down on his shoulders, and he was tempted to buckle beneath them.

But it was his turn to be strong, his turn to make sure everything was okay.

He needed to talk to Dean.

When Dean was sober.

_Tomorrow, _Sam decided

He pulled up a chair next to Dean, gently prising the bottle from unresisting fingers, and knew that it would be another sleepless night.

No way was he letting him go after what he had learnt tonight.


End file.
